Part of Oscar’s mystique had been androgyne.
Hollywood did, begrudgingly, endow cowboys androgyny, c.f. Brokeback Mountain.
Oscar united theaters– Elizabethan, Victorian, Broadwayian, Hollywoodian:
The Indians had been androgenous, but Oscar wanted to be a cowboy.
Who knows, cuddled on the ground, struggling to survive, to make it through, to drive them doggies home, home to momma, the stock yards, then the slaughterhouse, then the meat patty, the hamburger, slapping. A cowboy will survive, make it through the night, ride the night train,
But look partially like a woman, why?
On Tin Pan Alley, on vaudeville, under heights of limelight, lurking, like someone surviving on fishing the East River, Oscar felt lonely.
His death in 1900 meant he could have, if he hadn’t — ????? — gotten in on cinema. On the ground floor.
Or, hatching through the curd and the curdle, the blood-swinging and blood-swindling snake a moan, ad lib, a liberal can ad lib, or even a Joesepha McCurdle McCartn’ snuff, McCarthy can blow, on a Senate Committee, while the house is in session,
Come alive, and when UNESCO kissed, why weren’t children fed?
Spam of Human Affection 
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